


Tears

by Ariana (Ariana_El)



Series: The House of Fëanor chronicles [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Nirnaeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-04-30 18:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: Images from after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.





	1. One hundred and forty five tears

**Author's Note:**

> A set of six images from the retreat after Nirnaeth. Lots of angst, taking care of each other and facing the brutal reality.  
> The story is compliant with my other stories, but can be read separately.

**One hundred and forty five tears**

 

The defeat tasted like metallic blood from his bitten lips and the wound on his forehead. It was rusty like spots on his chainmail and armour. It smelled of sweat, fear and death.

That was all Maedhros’s weary mind registered, though he seemed to have come to terms with the facts and was doing everything he could to keep the survivors alive. The Union of Maedhros, the greatest alliance that was supposed to break Morgoth’s power ended in slaughter and retreat that was not a panic escape of the survivors in all but name. Even if he had some strength left in his arm, Maedhros could not turn back to help his cousins, unless he wished to lose the army of the sons of Feanor to the very last warrior. There were about a hundred and a half of them, certainly less than two hundred, yet only one out of ten could stand some chance in a fight; those were riding at the back, protecting the wounded and seeing that nobody was left behind. Who would lead them anyway?  
Maedhros looked at his brothers. Out of the six of them, aside from him only Amras was well enough. Celegorm could ride, but he would not stand long on his wounded legs. Curufin, still lucid and wincing in pain, was hanging on the horse’s neck. He had not fallen off yet only because Amras was walking beside him and guarding him. No one sane would have sent Caranthir to the battle right now. He wasn’t that bad, but Maedhros had purposely left Maglor in his care, for had he had free hands, he would have killed every Edain they passed. The singer was hanging limply in his grasp like a doll and his chest was covered with orc blood. They had not had a chance to check how gravely wounded he was and the only inclination was his raspy breath. But Maglor did breathe, so they could go on riding, just a little further.

Or they could not. At the back of the column some wounded fell from his horse and there was a little commotion to put him back with someone healthier. Curufin raised his head and looked back, then went grey, leaned and threw up. Amras caught him just in time to prevent him from falling. His older brother curled with a moan. He didn’t have the strength to wipe away tears marking clean tracks on his dirty face.

“We have to stop.” Amras looked at Maedhros, determined. Half of his face was covered with a bloody bruise from a hit that had not crushed his cheekbone only by some miracle. His right eye was swollen shut.

“Very well.”

Amras was already taking Curufin down, who moaned quietly. The remains of the Feanorian army and some random refugees from other hosts met the decision with relief. They dismounted, some of them almost falling, then sat where they could. Those less wounded took care of the remaining horses, so that they would carry them later.

Celegorm dismounted and made a few unsteady steps to fall down more than sit next to Curufin. Maedhros freed Caranthir from Maglor with Amras’s help. They laid him gently on the ground, but Moryo remained by his horse for a moment to regain his balance. Without waiting for him, Maedhros started taking the battered armour off his younger brother. Maglor’s breath quickened and became shallow, then the singer stared at Maedhros with his unfocused eyes, full of panic.

“It’s me, Kano, be still,” muttered the eldest son of Feanor, struggling with a destroyed buckle. Usually they used Sindarin when they were among other elves, but now he switched to Quenya, hoping to calm his brother a bit.

 “Can’t... breathe...” choked Maglor. His lips were open, gasping for air chaotically and he started to struggle.

“Shhhh, give me a moment and you’ll be free.” Maedhros tried the buckle again, but to no avail. “Moryo, help me,” he asked his younger brother, seeing that the other two were busy with Curufin.

Caranthir joined him, stumbling only once on his way. Maedhros moved and elevated Maglor so his brother could reach him more easily.

“Easy, Kano. Breathe.”

“Can’t!” There was pure panic in Maglor’s voice as he reached  blindly with one hand to his armour, disturbing Caranthir. HIs other arm was limp.

“Don’t speak,” ordered Maedhros and he lifted him a bit more. “Is it better? Breathe.”

Maglor silenced obediently, but he was still staring at his brother with fear and his breathing was raspy.

Maedhros muttered soothingly, trying to conceal his fear of what he was about to see under the breastplate. During the battle Maglor stopped Uldor as he tried to reach Caranthir, but then he was thrown from his saddle and buried under his own horse. His brother managed to get him out, but he was already unconscious then.

Caranthir finally managed to unfasten the buckle and he took off the breastplate. Maglor breathed deeply, but his exhale changed into a painful moan and he lost his breath again. There was nothing unusual in it, as his ribs and sternum were covered in purple-red bruise. His left hand turned out to be broken as they removed his arm guard.

“Better?” Maedhros held his brother with his stump as he clang to him, using his hand to help Caranthir remove the rest of the armour and clothes. Moryo was using his right arm only, as his left was dislocated by a strong hit he had taken with his shield.

“Nay...” moaned Maglor quietly and he dug his fingers into Maedhros’s forearm as his younger brother moved his broken arm.

Caranthir got rid of the armour and clothes and went to search for some water and bandages. Maglor managed to catch his breath, so Maedhros sat there, unmoving, giving orders to have the camp guarded and the gravely wounded tended to.

It started raining. The thick drizzle stuck to everything and it was plain that everything would be damp within half an hour or so. Before Amras managed to set the broken arm and secure it, Maglor was already shaking. Maedhros used what he could to cover him, but he gained little. They moved the wounded under the trees, hoping they would give them some protection.

Maedhros folded Maglor’s cloak behind his back, then added his own. Amras used his to cover him and all they could do was to hope it would be enough. They could not lit a fire, they had no medicines and the elves sent to search for some herbs had not returned yet.

Celegorm tended to Curufin and Amras and Caranthir carried him under the trees. As soon as they laid him down, Curufin turned, heaving. Caranthir  kept him so that he would not choke, but he had little to throw up.

Retching left Curufin exhausted, so as soon as it stopped, he curled, one hand by his abdomen, the other embracing his knees. Maedhros had no heart to tell him not to, as he could see he was shivering despite being covered. The evening rain had brought relief only for a moment after the heat of the battle and escape. Now the gravely wounded were already shivering in cold and exhaustion.

“Nelyo!” Maglor’s panic call dragged Maedhros’s attention from Curufin. “Too low... Can’t...” His grey eyes sought him with fear he could not conceal.

“Coming.” Maedhros crouched beside him and helped him sit up. He moved his brother so that he could remain seated, leaning against the roots. Maglor’s short, loud breaths rang in his ears. “Calm down, Kano. No one is going to lay you down again,” he promised, brushing the wet hair from his brother’s forehead and placing his broken arm in more comfortable position.

He sat like that for a moment, listening to his brother’s raspy breathing, until Amras reset Caranthir’s dislocated shoulder. He left Maglor in Moryo’s care and went through their makeshift camp. The remains of his army looked pitiful. The standard with the star, somehow rescued from the battle, was standing there, leaned against a tree. It was damp and hanging limp, but it was ironically clean, while all of them were crashed and trampled into mud. The elves were lying and sitting where they could, with no order. Each kept the survived horses by themselves. Some of them fell and did not move, some watched the most gravely wounded put in small groups.

One of Celegorm’s elves caught Maedhros’s attention. He had seen him, but didn’t know his name. The elf was lying on his side, still fully armed. HIs chainmail was torn and covered with blood on the chest. It seemed no one was taking care of him, so Maedhros knelt by him. He needed a moment before he realised what was amiss. After he had just been hearing Curufin’s moans and Maglor’s laboured breathing, he expected the same, but the elf was utterly quiet.

He was dead. Maedhros had already left too many friends and elves he had known to remember each and every one of them, but somehow he was shaken by the sight of Celegorm’s follower, who managed to get out of that hell only to die because he didn’t get help in time. Only now did Maedhros realise there were probably more elves like him and there still would. And who knew, perhaps two of his brothers would be among them.

The elves he passed informed him about the wounded, the provisions they had, about things found in the forest. A few of the Fingon’s warriors, separated from their company by the dragon, kept together, but they didn’t look at Maedhros with distaste; all of them were in the same hopeless situation, but those few found themselves under different command.

Someone managed to find some herbs and despite the orders made a small fire in a hollow to heat some water and prepare a decoction for fever for the wounded. The eldest son of Feanor wasn’t going to punish him for this insubordination. The wounded desperately needed help and the flames were barely visible. If someone followed them, they would sooner hear them than see the fire or smell the smoke.

Maedhros took a mug of the decoction and went back to his brothers, where Amras was just sharing the little food they had. Celegorm and Caranthir ate without appetite, but they were visibly hungry. The youngest of the brothers, though, only tried his bread, winced painfully and put it away, taking only some water. It seemed that Curufin and Maglor hadn’t even moved.

The eldest son of Feanor poured half of the decoction into another mug and passed it to Caranthir to give the medicine to Maglor. Then he knelt by Curufin.

“Curvo?” Maedhros leaned over his brother, thinking he was asleep, but Curufin opened his eyes and looked at him lucidly and unhappily.

“Mmm?”

“You need to sit up for a moment.”

Celegorm, laying next to him, sat up and helped him up. Maedhros pressed the hot mug to Curufin’s lips and he drank greedily, so that Maedhros had to restrain him.

“Slowly, Curvo, or it will harm you instead of helping,” he said, but Curufin took the mug from him and emptied it.

“Water?” He glanced at Maedhros, asking for more.

“You can’t drink so much, you know that.” Maedhros shook his head. Using the fact that Curufin was holding the mug, he touched his forehead. He was burning up, so no wonder he was thirsty, but they couldn’t risk to give him too much.

“Nelyo? Water...”

“Later. Try to get some sleep before we move on.”

Celegorm solved the problem by taking the mug away from his brother and lying him back on the ground. Before Curufin curled again, he laid down next to him and put his arm around him, so that they would be warmer.

Maedhros picked the mug from the ground when a sudden cramp of the muscles made him drop it. Discontent, he glanced at his left forearm below his elbow. He knew he was wounded, but it had not bothered him too much so he had pushed it aside, as there was a lot to do.

“Show me,” demanded Amras from behind his back.

The eldest son of Feanor just nodded He knew he could not neglect any arm injury if he didn’t want to end up utterly helpless. He couldn’t afford it. He let Amras clean and bandage his arm, then took some food from him to eat something. Perhaps it was raining less under the trees, but he could not straighten there, so he went away.

Amras hesitated whether he should follow him or stay, but finally he just dropped on the ground where he stood, next to Maglor. He dragged his legs closer, then put his good cheek on his knees and closed his eyes. He looked like he wanted to disappear.

“Pityo?” Celegorm’s tired voice didn’t let him fall asleep like that.

“Mmm?” Amras raised his head with effort and tuned towards his elder brother. He didn’t feel like arguing over being called like that. “What?”

“Has someone seen to you?” The hunter propped himself on the elbow and looked at him, trying not to fall asleep.

Amras shook his head and leaned it back on his knees, seeing that his brother didn’t need his help.

“Come here, I’ll have a look.”

“Leave it, Tyelko, there’s no need,” muttered the youngest son of Feanor towards his own knees. “Let me  be...”

“Come here.”

“Leave it. We have nothing left to make dressings anyway,” said Amras resignedly and laid down next to Maglor. It was plain he didn’t want to think about all the cuts his clothes must have stick to. Damp, he snuggled under his cloak covering his brother as much as he could.

“Have you cleaned them at least?” Inquired Celegorm further.

“Yes, yes...” muttered Amras, pressing his face somewhere near Maglor’s thigh, searching for warmness.

Celegorm didn’t point out the obvious lie, he just moved closer to Curufin and covered him with part of his own cloak, seeing that he was shivering again. Even if he tried again later, Amras wouldn’t hear him; he was already asleep.

Caranthir and Celegorm fell asleep as well, Curufin was napping restlessly. Only Maglor tried to, but he was jolting awake over and over again. Each time left him more exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. He was half-lying with his eyes closed, and to Maedhros his breathing sounded louder and much worse.

At some point he could not bear it any longer. He needed to think, to decide which way they would go next morning, where they would seek shelter and the only thing he could focus on was listening if Maglor was still breathing, if Curufin was still shaking.

The camp quieted. Aside from the guards, which changed often, most of the elves were asleep, only the wounded moaned quietly. After the second walk around Maedhros finally managed to count how many of them survived. One hundred and forty one elves escaped the slaughter in which the battle he had so carefully planned had changed, including those from Fingon’s hosts. Less than he had initially thought.

“Don’t shoot.” He heard suddenly. “Don’t shoot.” The voice, elvish for sure, came from the darkness.

Maedhros nodded to the nearest guard and spoke loudly.

“You may come.”

A lone elf appeared between the trees and approached them. He recognized the son of Feanor, he noticed the elves around them and sighed in relief. Maedhros could see Fingon’s emblem on his tunic.

“We were hoping we would catch up with you, Maedhros. You left a visible trail.”

“How many of you? Is Fingon following us?” Asked Maedhros, livening up. If his friend was escaping the same way, they could stand a better chance together. Perhaps he was more fortunate...

“Four.” The elf dispelled his hopes. “Our company was slaughtered. King Fingon fell,” he said quietly.

He spoke of Turgon then, who was trying to retreat with his warriors and had a chance to save more than a few, but the son of Feanor stopped at the first news. Fin... Suddenly, Maedhros felt all the weariness, every cut, the wound on his arm. He had not even realised till now how much he lived on hope that his cousins managed somehow to be successful where he had failed.

“Maedhros?” Inquired the elf, waiting. He was standing round-shouldered, covered with his cloak.

“Lead your friends here,” replied Maedhros. “Thorilon, go with him and show him a place to rest. We will go at dawn.”

One hundred and forty five survivors from the hosts of Fingon and the sons of Feanor. How many would not live till morning? Who knew, perhaps they had escaped death in battle only to be caught in a day or two? If Fingon’s elves followed their tracks, how long would it take the orcs to catch it too?

Maedhros sat down on a trunk, ignoring the dew; everything was damp already, him included. All the reserves of his hope and energy that had kept him moving seemed to have vanished. Without Fingon they had no chance to gather again, and the brief moment of vain hope that his friend was following him left him in even deeper despair. He had planned the battle that was supposed to crash the Enemy, but it was Fingon who managed to get in touch with his brother. Without him, they had not chance to get to Turgon, even if he had managed to retreat and go back to his hidden city. There was no way to get back on their feet after this defeat.

Weariness was slowly winning over him, but Maedhros knew he would not be able to sleep during a night like this, no matter how drained he was. So he sat there at the edge of their camp, keeping guard and postponing his return to his brothers. He wasn’t ready to pass them the news, though he had no doubts everyone would know before morning. And, though he hardly admitted it to himself, he didn’t want to go and check if he hadn’t lost any of his brothers.

“Maedhros?”

The eldest son of Feanor jerked, hearing his name. Amras was standing before him, a bit confused. In the pale light of the stars Maedhros could see his feverish gaze and his tensed face. He was fiddling with a cloth that served him earlier as a cool poultice.

“Which one?” Asked Maedhros in a choked voice. “Kano or Curvo?”

“What? What are you talking about?” Amras creased his eyebrows, though it looked more like a wince of pain. Then he realised what his brother meant. “No, no! Curufin is finally asleep. Kano is afraid to sleep. And his breathing is still awful,” he said grimly.

Maedhros let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding when he heard his first thought was wrong.

Amras was standing over him, staring at him with resignation and anxiety.

“Twelve,” said Maedhros dimly. “Four did not survive the journey. Eight died here,” he explained. “And another twelve may not live till morning.”

Amras backed as if he was slapped. He sat down at the tree trunk and embraced himself, still damp and cold. The night was cool, the earth was vaporizing and everything was wet.“And you think Maglor and Curufin are among them,” he finished. “No! It’s bad, but not that bad, do you hear me? What’s wrong with you, Maedhros?”

The eldest son of Feanor lowered his head and wiped his tired eyes. He stared at the ground.

“Findekano is dead,” he choked finally and glanced at his brother. “His men were slaughtered and he fell. Four elves from his company joined us an hour ago.” He could see his every word convinced his brother that he had not yet lost his mind in grief.

Amras made a noise that sounded half like a moan, half like a sob. For a long time he said nothing, staring dimly at the trees. Finally he sighed and rose.

“I need to go back before Kano starts fretting that he’s alone, for Moryo is fast asleep. Come, he has asked for you.”

 


	2. The aftermath of the battle

**The aftermath of the battle**

 

He needed a moment to wake, stiff after sleeping in a weird pose. He was sitting in a hollow and there was a root pinning into his back. He had sat there next to Maglor for the rest of the night, after he had helped Amras clean his wounds. The singer was trying to sleep only to wake up in panic, so finally Maedhros moved so that his brother was leaning against his chest. Only then had Maglor fallen in a restless sleep, immobilizing the eldest son of Feanor. It seemed he had not moved since then.

Maedhros froze as he realised what was amiss. Maglor was quiet... His heart almost jumped from his chest and the shiver had nothing to do with the morning chill. Kano...

He was almost dizzy when, after a moment of dumb staring, he noticed that his brother’s chest was raising and falling lightly. Only the whizz was gone, the breathing sounded better.

“Don’t get up just yet,” said Celegorm. “Let him sleep.”

Maedhros glanced up, pleasantly surprised to see him on his feet. HIs brother was walking and though his movements were careful, he didn’t look too bad. Amras, along with a few others, was preparing stretchers for the wounded.

 “I can’t wake Moryo,” muttered Celegorm grimly. “I’ll give him a moment.”

Maedhros glanced at Caranthir, then met Curufin’s gaze. So they were still there...

“Nelyo? What else has happened?” Maglor’s quiet question took him by surprise. “What is it that I don’t know? Your fea is screaming in grief,” he winced.

Right. Maedhros let his guard down for a moment when he sighed in relief, seeing that all of his brothers survived the night. He forgot how sensitive Maglor was in those matters.

He explained without hesitation. A part of him was grateful he could talk about it with the brother he had feared for the whole night. The presence of Maglor’s mind, as well as his weight on his chest, somehow reminded Maedhros that he had not yet lost everyone dear to him.

Maglor moaned softly, propped himself and sat up with effort. He reached with his good hand for a knife at his brother’s belt.

“What are you doing?” Maedhros creased his eyebrows, following the unsteady movements of the wounded.

“I have seen you do that many times.” The singer tossed his braid over his shoulder and grabbed the end with his teeth. Only then did Maedhros realise what he was about to do.

“I am usually stronger than you are now,” he remarked, taking the knife away with no effort.

His younger brother tried to grab his hand, but the sudden movement made him lose his breath. For a while he fought with coughing, but when he calmed, he looked at Maedhros with plea.

“Nelyo,” he whispered. “Don’t deny me that, not when even my voice fails me.”

Maedhros could not refuse. He grabbed the knife and cut his black braid directly by the skin.

xxx

“They’re not far,” spoke Maglor quietly. His eyes were closed as he communicated with Alcarino from time to time and led Maedhros.

His eldest brother was grateful for that. He had not even thought of trying to reach the healer with his mind, as this way of communication was almost closed to him. Even after so many years he could not bring himself to trust enough to open his mind. But Maglor, vigilant, though weak, had thought about checking if anyone from their equipage had survived. He got in touch with Alcarino, who too was running away east from the desolation, leading what he had managed to save from their wagons with supplies. Whatever he had, the remains of the army were looking forward to joining of the two companies, even if it meant seeing just a few more familiar faces. And the healer, they were in desperate need of a healer and Alcarino was respected by all of them.

Maglor led them flawlessly. At the sight of the wagons the elves quickened their pace, eager to see the familiar faces.

Maedhros found the characteristic silhouette of the healer bustling around the camp. Alcarino looked at them grimly as they stopped with no particular order, and the commander noticed his torn and bloodied sleeve.

“I never said I’m good at it,” said Alcarino calmly, pointing slightly at Maedhros’s sword. He managed to find a warm smile as he greeted him with a firm grasp.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you. And it’s good to know you’re not completely defenceless.”

“They insisted.” Alcarino shrugged. He had one of his long, precise knives by his belt. “Though I don’t think I would use it.”

The party did not wait for orders. The elves spread, searching for place to rest. Some of them almost fell on the ground where they stood, some helped the wounded, some gave the horses to their less tired companions.

“Hold on, Kano, I’m getting off,” warned Celegorm and as he made sure his brother grabbed the saddle with his good hand, he dismounted carefully. Maedhros approached them to secure the singer.

“You don’t have to carry me, I can walk,” whispered Maglor, clenching his fingers to keep himself upright.

“I can see you can’t.” Maedhros pointed out, raising his arms to embrace his brother.

“Nelyafinwe, wait,” Alcarino stopped him. “I don’t want to see you carrying  anything heavier than a bowl before you show me that arm.”

Maedhros looked like he was about to object, but he just sighed and nodded. Amras replaced him to take care of Maglor, as the eldest son of Feanor went with the healer to point the most gravely wounded.

“Didn’t you hear Alcarino?” snorted Maglor with reproach, probably seeing only the red hair of his brother.

“Look who you talk to,” retorted Amras tiredly and carefully took him off the saddle.

xxx

Alcarino had no time to count how many elves Maedhros had managed to lead from the slaughter. Suddenly he had far too many wounded to tend to and many of them required his immediate attention. Even with the help of the other healer and his young apprentice he had to decide fast and hope he would not make a fatal mistake. He was grateful for the scouting parties who collected all the herbs they could find. They were in desperate need of medicines because even those who were not seriously wounded looked ill and feverish, hardly any eyes shone brightly. Most of the Noldor and Sindar stared numbly and not many forced a shadow of smile in thanks. Alcarino did not mind, focusing only on cleaning and sewing wounds and resetting broken bones.

Among the survivors Maedhros was one of the few who did not sit or lie down when they stopped. He walked with Alcarino, pointing the most gravely wounded and demanding information from the elves that remained by the wagons before the battle. He showed no discontent nor did he scold anyone, though the Noldo reporting to him seemed to have expected that. Only later did Maedhros sit by Curufin and Celegorm and let the latter unfasten the arm guard at his wounded arm.

Alcarino reached Maglor as Amras was trying in vain to make him drink some broth. The hot meal, though there was not much of it, cheered some elves at least a bit. As Alcarino had learned from one who tended to the wounded, they had not eaten anything but travel bread they had found in the bags of the survived horses. The broth was meant for the wounded, but Alcarino ordered to refuse it to no one. Maglor, however, was one of those too hurt and exhausted to force down more than a few sips.

Seeing the healer, Amras removed the mug and moved away. Alcarino tended to the wounded, forcing him to answer some questions so that Maglor would not fall asleep in the middle. His state suggested some inner damage, but the wounded hardly reacted to his treatments, muttering some responses to Alcarino’s questions. Only resetting his improperly set arm broke the singer’s apathy, but what drew the healer’s attention was the fact that Amras did not react, hearing his brother’s moans.

“Amras? What’s wrong?” asked the healer, and from the way the redhead jerked he gathered he must have been already falling asleep.

“Nothing, Alcarino,” sighed Amras and looked up. “Just a few scratches, nothing to worry about.”

Not really convinced, the healer reached for his swollen cheek, but Amras moved away before he could touch him.

“Pityo?”

The youngest son of Feanor shook his head and winced painfully. He sighed resignedly.

“Nothing, Alcarino,” he repeated. “I’m just hungry, I cannot eat.” He brushed his dirty fingers against his cheek.

Alcarino did not let him escape for the second time. He made sure no bones were broken, deaf to Amras’s hissing; he did not have the luxury of caring for his patients’ comfort as well, when somebody’s life could be at stake. He carefully put some ointment on the bruise, then glanced at the mug Amras was still holding.

“Drink it.”

“That’s for Kano...” Amras glanced at his brother, sitting leaned against a wheel of the wagon.

“Drink,” whispered Maglor without opening his eyes. “Don’t want...”

“I don’t think Makalaure will have more,” remarked Alcarino calmly, doing his best to hide his own despair. He needed medicines and shelter to save some of the wounded, but the warriors needed a healer who knew what he was doing and who would not surrender to the grief. “Drink, Pityo. It will pass.” Fortunately, he did not need to worry about Amras and he would be grateful for his help, but in order to do so, the youngest son of Feanor needed his strength. Many of the wounded were still waiting for help; the healer had no time for rest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alcarino is my OC healer, he was already present in my story "Reconciliation"


	3. Between life and death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, I needed to work on my story in progress first.

**Between life and death**

If Maglor was to say anything, to write some nice verses about the battle, he would have used but one word to describe the elves. Trampled. The wagons wheeled slowly through the wilderness, shaking and rocking, sometimes getting stuck in sand, and the remains of the army of the sons of Feanor went on, running away from the enemy. Every time they stopped, new groups of refugees, elves and dwarves, would join them, as they moved more quickly than the wagons.

Maglor tried to pass the long, painful hours of the journey with making a song, some elegy for Fingon, who was their king, but first of all their cousin and friend. The faces of the fallen mingled in his mind, and the bitter taste of treason left nothing but grief and curses. But Maglor wasted no strength for cursing; breathing hurt too much and required too much energy. Breathe, slowly, shallowly, breathe – that was his first concern.

The second was Curufin. Maglor could feel his burning forehead through his trousers where Curufin was leaning his head against his thigh. They had been travelling like that for two days and the condition of his brother had not improved. Travelling in saddle, then in  a cocoon between the horses had worsened his state and his fever had risen to the point when he had lost consciousness. Since they had reached Alcarino, the healer had been doing everything he could to bring the fever down before it kills the son of Feanor.

“Water...” moaned Curufin softly and Maglor’s heart cringed as he hastily removed the water skin from his own mouth. Alcarino still recommended to be careful with giving the wounded too much liquids, but the fever left Curufin thirsty and there wasn’t much they could do about it. Maglor was terrified with the mere fact that his proud brother, who usually faced the dangers with his head raised and with a daring smile, was lying helpless beside him and pleaded for something as ordinary as water, instead of shrugging off the refusal and walking away.

It took Maglor a while to damp a piece of linen cloth with his good hand. He squeezed it on his brother’s lips, who licked it greedily.

“Kano... give me...”

There was nothing he could do but repeat the movement, knowing it was just a deceit. But Curufin did not complain, taking what Maglor could safely give him.

xxx

 If it was only up to Maedhros, they wouldn’t have stopped for the night, but continue fleeing. However, Alcarino demanded that they stop, seeing that the wounded on the wagons had gone utterly quiet and many of the riders looked like they were about to fall off. The commander did not oppose, as it was enough for him to glance at two of his younger brothers.

 The healer went on the wagon as soon as they stopped. Maglor, sitting at the edge, relaxed with a quiet sigh and leaned his head against the side, closing his eyes. Those of the wounded who were conscious seemed equally relieved that the wagon stopped jolting. They seemed to be about to fall asleep, but the healer needed a bit more space to take care of Curufin and three other elves without taking them down.

“Maglor,” he said calmly, placing his hand on the singer’s shoulder. “Kano, don’t fall asleep just yet,” he repeated, switching to Quenya. He had learned that most of the older Noldor reacted better to hearing their mother tongue in such situations.

“I’m not,” whispered Maglor and opened his eyes. He was caressing Curufin’s forehead and only now, when they stopped, did the small gesture bring any comfort, as his brother’s ghostly features softened a bit.

“I need you to get off the wagon,” said Alcarino. “Amras, please help me here,” he called. Curufin jerked and moaned quietly.

The youngest son of Feanor came quickly and helped Maglor get down, while the haler put a folded cloak under Curufin’s head, where Maglor’s leg had been.

“Al’rino? Wat’r...” The cracked lips of the wounded barely moved.

“I’ll give you something fresh in a moment,” promised the healer, reaching for Maglor’s skin. He shook it and sighed inwardly as he noticed it was only half empty. He wasn’t really surprised the singer did not drink in his brother’s presence, but he shouldn’t have done so.

“Do you need more help?” inquired Amras, as he supported Maglor, whose numb legs would not hold him.

“See to Maglor. And take this.” Alcarino gave the waterskin to the redhead. Then he called the nearest healthy elf to help him elevate the wounded. His arm, wounded by an orc blade, was getting weaker and he had to be careful, for more than one life depended on his strength.

xxx

Amras felt like there was no end to the duties. He had managed to wolf down some supper as he was trying to get Maglor to eat, but then one of his friends, who was preparing the bandages to be boiled, asked him to bring the rest of the dressings. The youngest son of Feanor made sure his brother was sitting comfortably and went to the wagon.

Alcarino had left the bandages put neatly into a basket by the seat. Amras was about to take it and leave, but the sight of Curufin curled by the side of the wagon stopped him. He expected to find Celegorm next to him, but his brother was still tending to the horses. He hesitated for a moment, then went up swiftly and crouched by his brother. The poultice on his forehead was still wet, but warm already, so Amras damped the cloth and wiped his brother’s pale, sweaty face.

“Shhhhh, it’s just me,” he muttered quietly as Curufin shivered and moaned.

 Curufin glanced at him with his unfocused eyes, but then his icy fingers curled around his brother’s wrist.

“So it’s.. already...” he mumbled, still unable to focus his gaze and keep his eyes open.

“Shhh, Curufinwe,” murmured Amras nervously. “Rest while we’re not moving. Sleep.” He stiffly adjusted the poultice, then straightened the folds of the cloak, just to do something. Only the next words made him freeze.

“No... no, Telvo.” Curufin’s voice became stronger, though it was still just a whisper. “Not now, when I can...”

“Shhhhhh, Curvo!” hissed Amras, terrified what he was about to hear.

“... ask... forgiveness...” Curufin’s eyes closed, his grasp loosened and Amras jerked, as if his brother’s touch burned him.

“No, Curvo! No!” He did not raise his voice as the other wounded were trying to sleep. “It’s me, Pityo! Pityo, do you hear me!?” He carefully shook his brother’s arm to get some response.

Curufin opened his eyes and looked at him more lucid. Amras turned fully towards him, so that he could see the brown-green bruise still colouring his cheek and eye.

“Pityo...” There was understanding in the eyes of the wounded, and then terror. Amras had no idea so many emotions could show on his brother’s face, but it seemed that pain and fever had taken away the proud and arrogant demeanour he bore on daily basis.

“Hush, Curufinwe,” repeated Amras again, somewhere in between registering the fact that his brother tightened his grip again. “It’s fine. And you are staying with us, do you hear me?” He leaned forward and hissed to his brother’s ear. “Sleep. Who knows when Nelyo orders to go on. And you’d better still be with us then.”

“Mmm...” Curufin dragged himself closer, his features tensed with pain. Amras stared numbly as his brother moved his hands to his cheek while still holding his wrist.

He sat like that, completely dumbfold, and Curufin went still and relaxed a bit. If not for his warm breath on his hand, Amras would have assumed he had fled to Mandos after all. His tired mind tried to comprehend what had happened and he froze there, leaning against the seat.

A hand suddenly placed on his shoulder broke the spell. Amras raised his head and looked up straight into his eldest brother’s worried eyes.

“What’s going on, Amras?” Maedhros glanced at him, then at Curufin and his brows went up.

“He’s mistaken me for Telvo,” replied Amras numbly, leaning his head against his brother. “He... he thought that...”

“Pityo?”

“He’s asleep. He’s just asleep,” he whispered and closed his eyes.

Maedhros did not take his hand back nor did he move away. He stood there, lost in thought, brushing his fingers against Amras’s pauldron. Amras could fall asleep like that, just for a moment. He almost did, when he heard a hoarse coughing.

Maedhros’s hand disappeared this instance, as he turned around to seek for Maglor; he had no doubts who could be choking like that.

The singer was kneeling, his good hand barely supporting him. He was visibly about to get up, but he lacked the strength and the effort had left him breathless again.

Maedhros got to him in a few long steps, sat him and supported with his shoulder. Maglor gave up and just gasped for air, but his frightened eyes were on Amras. Finally he managed to utter the question.

“Curvo? Khhh...” he coughed again, but he leaned against Maedhros and in vain tried to get up.

“He’s alive,” said the eldest of the brothers shortly and he forced Maglor back on his bedding. He leaned over him and whispered something. Amras could see he succeeded in calming the singer. Whatever Maedhros had said, he must have convinced Maglor that they were not standing by the wagon to say farewell to Curufin.

 

 


	4. Impossible choice

**Impossible choice**

 

“No!”

The terror in the elf’s voice drew attention of his companions, at least those who bothered to care for anything else than a few moments of rest before continuing on fleeing.

“I have no choice.” The healer, kneeling by the bedding, looked up at the anxious elf, crouching by his unconscious friend.

“What’s the matter, Alcarino?” asked Maedhros as he approached them.

The healer sighed and got up. He was weary from endless care of the wounded and the poison running through his own veins marked its existence with dark circles on his greyish face. His clothes were red and stiff from blood of the wounded, but from his own as well.

“I cannot do anything more.” Alcarino’s voice was calm and collected, but tired. “I can cut off his arm or leave it and wait for him to die.”

“Save him.” Came the short order. They could not afford any more loses.

Alcarino nodded and rolled up his stiff sleeves. The elf crouching by the wounded froze in disbelief, but dared not to speak.

“I shall require assistance.”

Maedhros looked at his elves. His brothers in arms, weathered in many battles, who now would not meet his eyes. The commander could see their terror and shame for their reaction, embarrassment of those who dared to glance at him. There was no good option in the choice Alcarino offered, but no one would say so in front of Maedhros.

“You and you.” The eldest son of Feanor pointed at the crouching elf and his companion behind him, who was barely holding himself put.

They both looked at their commander, then at the unconscious wounded, but before any of them managed to say something, another order came.

“You will change the guards by the water,” said Maedhros and the elves left hastily; there was a reason why they were being sent as far away as possible. “I will help you. I’ll hold him down.”

Now the elves around were visibly ill at ease, but Alcarino had no time to think about it. He simply picked another two that seemed most composed. He gave orders without checking if they were followed, as the elves he chose had the nerves to assist him.

“It may still not work,” he warned quietly.

“If it worked in my case, with what Fin...” The name of the fallen king stuck in Maedhros’s throat. He shook his head and added more calmly. “It will work.”

The healer did not say out loud that success depended mostly not on his abilities, but on the fëa of the wounded – whether it would be able to stay in the mutilated hröa or not.

The elves around tried not to look, but they could not pretend they did not hear. Neither Alcarino nor his helpers paid attention to that, focused solely on the wounded.

When Alcarino finally finished, they were all covered with blood and the Noldor assisting him turned indifferent; horror was displaced by emptiness as they followed the last orders and cleaned. None of them noticed how much Alcarino’s wounded arm shook when he finally stood up and took upon himself the most ungrateful task. Maedhros was kneeling by the wounded; he owed him that much.

Only the sudden commotion and alarmed cries made him jerk and look to see Alcarino fall suddenly as if someone kicked his legs from beneath him. Maedhros could not help him, as the wounded was still desperately clinging to his arm, but the elves around took care of the healer, helping him sit up and passing some water.

Alcarino sat like that, for a moment not even trying to conceal his weariness. He had been looking after he wounded for the past few days, but this last surgery was simply too much.

Maedhros finally freed himself from the weakening grasp. He caressed the wet cheek of the wounded, trying not to see the emptiness in his eyes, and left him with one of his friends. He approached Alcarino, who had his own bandages being checked.

“How’s...?” The healer immediately looked at his patient, but Maedhros’s hand prevented him from getting up.

“Leave him to the others,” ordered the commander. Unlike his warriors, visibly worried by the healer’s weakness, he had to rely solely on cool calculations.

“Nelyafinwe...” Alcarino closed his eyes and sighed, bending and straightening his fingers as if he was trying to improve blood circulation.

“That was not a suggestion.” Maedhros reminded him firmly. “We need you, all of us. Your health is more important to me.”

Perhaps someone could accuse him for being selfish, taking the best healer away from the elf they had just crippled. Perhaps they could even say Maedhros did it so Alcarino could look after his brothers, but it didn’t matter – the overall calculation was cruel and left no place for discussion. Many lives depended on the healer’s health.

“Rest. Get some sleep. No wounded will be left alone,” promised Maedhros. “And you will not help anyone if you collapse.”

“It seems you are using my own arguments against me.” A ghost of smile appeared on Alcarino’s pale face, but it faded as soon as he glanced at the crippled elf and at the wagon with the wounded he was still not sure whether they would survive. “Wake me if you deem it necessary.”

They both knew Maedhros would do no such thing unless there was no other option.

In the falling dusk the refugees welcomed with relief the silence that embraced the camp. Apart from the guards and those watching over the wounded, most of the elves were resting. They still could not be sure if the enemy would not get them to slaughter them all.

Only the mutilated elf could not calm down, and hearing his sobbing, the Noldor looked away in sham; they could not help him. Maedhros went back and sat by him. He spoke quietly, keeping his voice composed and reassuring, explaining and trying to bring some comfort. Finally,the wounded stopped sobbing, but it was long before Maedhros left him.

The crippled elf did not live till morning. His fëa escaped the body before dawn, though it seemed he had fallen into a deep, healing sleep. Before they continued their journey, they hid the body from the devastation; it was all they could do. Maedhros was silent when he was leaving another of his companions behind and later, as he helped Alcarino get on the wagon, so that he could watch over the wounded.

 

 

 


	5. Those who survived have to go on fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original Polish title comes from song "Somosierra" by Jacek Kaczmarski.

**Those who survived have to go on fighting**

They fled through the wilderness that once was rich fields of Thargelion, now desolated. The meadows were wet from the recent rains and the wheels of the wagons often got stuck, so when they reached a dryer hill, everyone welcomed the change with relief.

The wounded on the wagon went silent, perhaps because it stopped shaking and bumping so much. Alcarino sat among them, grim and weary, but determined not to lose any more of his patients. Had they been in the castle, had the journey not been sucking all the strength that was left... Unfortunately, he had to manage with what he had and he was about to admit he would soon lack everything. The rain that started once more didn’t help at all.

The elves were lying on their beddings, drugged with herbs Alcarino had given them generously to made the journey as bearable as possible. Curufin curled again and pulled the cloak on his head, but remained indifferent to the fact that the rain was dropping on his nose. The elf beside him, immobilised on his back, didn’t even attempt to cover his face and just shivered occasionally.

 Alcarino looked up at Maglor sitting in front of him at the back of the wagon. He had seen him trying to look after his brother the previous day, but now he simply sat, embracing his bent legs with his arm, with his head lowered to the point when he rested his forehead against his knees. Only after a moment of watching did the healer realise that he had not heard his coughing from some time.

“Maglor?” he inquired quietly, leaning towards him. “Maglor?” He moved closer, alarmed by the lack of response, and knelt.

The wounded had his lips half open, gasping shallowly for air. His face turned grey and the healer cursed his own weariness because of which he had not noticed earlier that one of his patients was about to choke.

“Cough, Kano,” he ordered shortly in Quenya. “Come on!” Minding his broken ribs, he patted gently his back, but got nothing more than a painful sigh. “Stop the wagon!” He called to the driver.

The Sinda glanced back at him, but before he asked him to repeat the order he did not understand, Celegorm halted the horses.

“What’s going on?” The hunter slipped from his saddle and reached the back of the wagon.

“Help me.” Alcarino put his legs down and dragged Maglor to the edge. He forced the wounded to lay down on his knees, head down. “Like with a drowned man, Tyelko.”

“What?” Celegorm watched the healer’s actions in terror. “What are you doing? He was getting better, he stopped coughing! And his ribs....”

“That’s the problem! If we don’t make him cough, the water in his lungs will eventually drown him!” explained Alcarino sharply.

“Forgive me,” muttered Celegorm. The healer didn’t know if it was meant for him or for his brother, but he didn’t care, as long as the hunter followed his orders.

Patted on his back, Maglor started coughing and choking. He struggled to push them and get up, but his brother’s strong arms didn’t let him. Coughing turned into spasms, then in a moan.

“’Rino...”

“It’s alright, breathe,” said Alcarino gently. He let Celegorm seat his brother and Maglor leaned his forehead against his brother’s hest, still shivering, wet from rain and sweat.

“Better?” asked the hunter, helping the wounded lean back against the wagon.

Then he turned abruptly as he heard a lone rider. One of Caranthir’s riders was riding from the back of their column, raising alarm. He stopped by the wagon where Celegorm halted him; Maedhros was already approaching them.

“The enemy behind us!” reported the scout when the commander joined them. “There is a group of elves and Naugrim following our trails, but the enemy will get them before they reach us!”

“How many?”

“About a hundred of our people, another hundred of the Naugrim,” replied the scout. “And at least twice as much orcs. Lord Caranthir turned to help, but he has to few horsemen.”

“Wounded to the front!” ordered Maedhros at once. “Take the wagons and go on as quick as you can. Amras, you’ll look after them. Tyelko, take your riders, we’ll go help.”

The elf driving the wagon urged the horses to move, but the wheels got stuck in the wet ground. Alcarino had not paid attention to that when he demanded a stop. A commotion arose as the nearest warriors tried to get the wagon from the mud.

The fleeing groups of elves and dwarves appeared from the right side of the hill. Celegorm changed his mind and instead of joining Caranthir, he rode towards the refugees who, seeing approaching help, stopped to form an orderly line to meet the enemy. Maedhros took the rest of the riders to the back of the column.

Alcarino watched the chaos around them. As one more wagon got stuck as well, Amras’s warriors broke some boards from the sides of the wagons to place them under the wheels and drag them from the worst mud. The wagons were heavy, overloaded, but they could not unload them with the enemy so near.

“Sit!” hissed Maglor at the healer, when he moved to get off the wagon; he was the only one capable of doing so to unload it just a bit. “You are unarmed,” whispered Maglor. He managed to catch his breath and he watched closely what was going on despite his weakness.

Even with the warriors of the sons of Feanor, the mixed group did not completely stop the enemy. Some of the orcs realised the wagons were trapped, and the rest of the wounded with them, as they did not dare to split.

Alcarino looked at the wounded lying on the wagon. None of them could see what was going on, but at least two of them were searching for any kind of weapon. Curufin managed to grab a dagger, but the look he gave Alcarino lacked any hope. None of them would be able to defend himself if the orcs broke Amras’s defence.

“Get down!” ordered Maglor suddenly and pulled the healer.

He had little strength, but Alcarino was so surprised that he let him do that and they fell on the legs of the nearest elf. A moment later arrows flew above their heads. Some went further, but two stuck into the side of the wagon. Someone cried nearby, someone fell. Alcarino moved as much as he could so that he would not hurt the wounded, mindful not to raise above the sides of the wagon. Maglor remained like he fell, unable to move.

Suddenly the wagon was in the middle of the chaos. Arrows stopped flying above the heads of the wounded, but steel sang around them. Somewhere near Amras was shouting orders. The elves who were trying to free the wheels grabbed their weapons as well, creating a protective wall around the wounded. Judging by the calls, a group of dwarves that had been travelling with them for a few days joined Amras.

“Leave it, Curufinwe,” said Alcarino to the wounded, who was trying to sit up with a knife in his hand. He didn’t manage and fell heavily back on his bedding, almost piercing himself with his own blade.

Next to him the elf immobilised on his back ceased trying to grab some weapon. When Alcarino placed a hand on his shoulder, he stared at him fiercely.

“If they get us, kill me,” he asked.

The healer shivered. This was not what he was fighting for in these terrible conditions. His task was to save lives, not take them, but the elves around looked at him with similar determination.

The drumming of the hoofs could be heard over the clattering of steel as the riders fell on the orcs, Celegorm from one side, Maedhros and Caranthir from the other. Regrouped  elves managed to push the enemy away from the weakest part of the remains of the army, giving Amras and his warriors the possibility to take care of the wagons. New Naugrim joined the ones who had fought alongside the youngest son of Feanor, shielding the wounded.

Soon was the commotion over. Cries of the wounded and shouting was replaced by neat order. Alcarino sat and first of all fished the dagger from Curufin’s cold fingers, but as he met the glare of the wounded, he put the blade behind his belt instead of taking it away. Curufin didn’t look like he was going to do anything.

Maglor too sat and looked around, searching for his brothers. He was still grey, but seemed interested in what was going on, so the healer decided not to worry. Instead, he just helped him move more comfortably and went off the wagon, not stopped by any of the wounded.

Despite Maedhros’s orders from the last night, Alcarino soon found himself among the wounded, removing arrows, stitching wounds and setting broken bones. At the same time he was trying to check how many of the new elves and dwarves were unable to walk.

In the meantime the wagons were freed and the sons of Feanor gathered with the leaders of the dwarves on a hasty council. Alcarino didn’t really pay attention to them, still busy helping. Only when Maedhros came to the group of wounded to give them his horse, did the healer see the change in him. The encounter they had just won could not take away dark circles under Maedhros’s eyes, nor did it wipe out worries written on his face, but there was a new sparkle in his eyes. Alcarino suspected that only he and Maedhros’s brothers knew that his mobilisation came from his sheer stubbornness and that it would not last long. But now the eldest son of Feanor seemed to have got a new purpose, other than just fleeing the enemy.

“What are we going to do?” inquired Alcarino, intrigued by the change. “Maedhros?”

The elf turned his gaze away from his companions helping one of the wounded mount his horse.

“The Naugrim have offered us shelter,” he replied, lost in thoughts. “We accepted. If we manage to reach Dolmed and Nogrod, perhaps we will be able to heal our wounded and regroup.”  
“That’s good news.” Alcarino managed to appear a little enthusiastic, for a moment trying not to remember about the hardships the journey that still awaited them.

“We shall regroup, rest and then plan what next,” remarked Maedhros soberly. “That war is not yet over.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, almost done. I promise the last one will be more cheerful.


	6. Hospitality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised to end more lightly, so here it is.

**Hospitality**

“It’s your turn, Curvo,” said Celegorm, hanging his damp shirt on a chair.

“No, thank you, I shall be fine with just a bowl here.” Curufin made no gesture suggesting that he would get up. He was sitting and leaning against the wall, gazing at his brothers indifferently, looking bored.

“I dare say you could use a proper bath.” Maedhros agreed with his brother, letting him braid his wet hair. “There are tubs, soap and hot water.” There was a hint of content in his voice, as if that simple fact had put him in a good mood.

“Tublings, more likely,” snorted Celegorm, picking his light tone. Curufin could see he was trying to prolong that good mood, even if it was caused simply by the possibility of washing themselves in decent conditions.

“I’d ask you not to repeat that in front of our hosts.” Maedhros reminded his brother, leaning his head back to look at him. His shirt was damp as well, but he didn’t bother to undress. He seemed content and patiently allowed Celegorm to braid his hair in something more elaborate than a single braid.

“You should have seen him in the child’s bathtub with his knees up to his chin,” said Celegorm merrily to Curufin. “But I have to admit our hosts didn’t lose their composure.”

“As if any of you could fit any better than I,” muttered Maedhros and he closed his eyes. “I don’t care about the size of the tub, as long as I can use it. And I would strongly advise you to do the same, Curufinwe.”

“Later, perhaps. I’m fine for now,” replied Curufin smoothly, swallowing the rising jealousy. The skin on his head was terribly itchy, but he would prefer being able to wash himself. The last thing he wished to admit in front of his brothers was that he went to the forges to discuss the terms of sharing them with the hosts, instead of resting like Alcarino had told him to. That trip consumed most of his strength and he would require assistance to take a bath now.

“Really?” Maedhros opened his eyes and glanced at him sceptically. “I’d say the opposite, judging by the way you look.”

Curufin just pouted and crossed his arms. He had purposely ignored a mirror on the wall. Its location, allowing him to see his hollow chest, was only one of the reasons.

“What Nelyo has put so nicely, is that you are dirty, dear brother,” said Celegorm. “And as we are about to share this chamber in the nearest future, I’d rather you used a bath, before something jumps from you on any of us.”

“What is it that you’re suggesting?” growled Curufin, narrowing his eyes in fury. “It’s you animals usually follow, not me.”

“What about those that perhaps already live on you?” Celegorm finished braiding Maedhros and winked at him. He approached Curufin and offered him a hand. “Get up.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Shall I ask Amras to help Tyelko carry you?” asked Maedhros calmly. “I’d rather you didn’t go to the forges like that, or our hosts may think you don’t like their hospitality.”

Curufin turned red and glanced at him with distaste.

“That was low,” he hissed and rose from the bed, ignoring Celegorm’s help.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think? Please let me know.


End file.
